~ For Me

I see red. Crimson cheeks dance to a warm sting in my palm. The ache, so strong I can feel it. But it’s one of those days. I’m trapped at work with endless piles of paper to shove around a desk. I yearn to be free of my zoo cage, to stalk through the grass, to watch prey through slit eyes, and pounce taking it down by the throat. It’s one of those long, long work days that never seems to end.

Thoughts of Susan keep me distracted through every moment. Bright red cheeks dance to a warm sting in my hand. The need, so strong I can taste her on the air. Hyde whispers lurid thoughts all day long making it nearly impossible to focus on any work. The slow simmer drags on for hours.

At home I find her in the kitchen, making salads. Not exactly a hearty meal for a full day’s work.

“Is this for me?” I ask.

She smiles, brushes me off, unaware that she’s been on my mind all day. Sprinkling grated cheese is more important that an answer.

Hyde whispers, “make her pay.” And this time I listen, letting him slip out of the cage and into the driver’s seat.

I grab her hair, winding my fist in a knot. She sighs and gives me a sidelong glance, the sprinkling slowing to a controlled stop. I’ve got her attention now.

“I just got home. Didn’t have time to make anything…” She stops talking with a gasp when I coil crimson locks in my grip.

Fiery hair, I want to see red somewhere else as well. She’s smiling, practically smirking, thinking this is all just a tease, that mere hunger is my primary motivation. I do hunger, but for something entirely different than what she can pour onto a plate. Her back is arched, her posture stiff, hands pressed to the counter waiting for something to happen.

I walk to the table dragging her along behind me by a leash of mane. Yanking a chair out I sit and pull her across my lap. She makes a contented groan as I yank her skirt up. The panties infuriate me. Sure, they are expected attire out in the real world, but right now I want to see red. I want to see her ass burning a bright crimson. I grab the panties and yank up, letting them bite into her tender bits, pulling them up sharply into an impromptu thong.

Red, it’s the only thing on my mind.

My hand rises and falls, over and over and over and over again. Until my own palm is burning and numb. The smack of flesh on flesh creating a lewd music in the room. A tune played by me across her bright hind end, her ass aglow in a cherry state. I keep striking over and over until my hand is numb with the effort. She squirms at first, then struggles, then cries out, first in yelps then curses.

I yank back on her hair, “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please stop.”

“What? Does this hurt?” I give her another hard smack.

She squeals out, “Yes! Please, I’m begging you to stop, sir.” Sir means she’s dead serious. She rarely uses it in sentence form, mostly only when affirming or denying something, yes sir, no sir. Its use here is out of place.

Her eyes are pressed closed, lips quivering. Tears streak her face. I’ve quite possibly reached her limit.

Hyde whispers again, “make her pay.”

“Five more,” I tell her, “can you take five more?”

She says nothing, fighting back a sniffle.

I add, “For me?”

She moans then nods after a heartbeat.

I relish those five strokes taking my time. Letting my hand slide over heated flesh. Then lifting away, pausing watching her flinch, letting her wonder when the blow will come.

Striking hard even though my hand cries out. The sound of her gasp and the crack of flesh far more delicious than any salad.

When its done I hesitate and Hyde shoves me aside. I hear myself ask, “Another? For me?”

Susan groans, but whispers, “yes, sir.”

My hand rises into the air, and I wonder, while Hyde snickers, just how many more will she take, for me.

Rattling the Cage

Looking back it’s strange to see how the loss of a girl started my writing. Before that nothing, even though there was a world of deviant history. And since then, periods of downpours, then of long droughts. Or more true, periods of Hyde slipping free and bragging about his conquests, and periods of Jekyll having sense enough to keep quite.

The quite periods are the typically the ones of contentment. Those spots where everything seemed to be going fairly well, successful at work or romantically. The urge to tear my chest open and bare my guts for all to see just wasn’t there. And yet, the last year’s been tumultuous, but no writing, no successful hunts, no victories. Just nose to grindstone, fixated on getting by, so much that the mad howling from my other half is drowned out.

I have work to do. Finishing the final touches of a degree I have dreamed about since high school. My dominant vanilla desire is switching from a career that was wildly successful to one that would make me happy beyond words. I’d drive a stake through Hyde’s heart, turn my back utterly on that side of myself, in an instant for the whisper of that professional opportunity. Hyde may have wormed his way through to my very core, but I would put this need in a box if I had any choice. I don’t have time for his antics right now.

Those quite periods are when he festers. When they end I see exactly how much he’s grown, hungered. Like the rumbling of a nearing freight train Hyde’s escape looms. Vibrations of it already coalesce in the form of correspondences renewed to old like minded acquaintances. Hyde may not quite be rattling the cage, but I can feel him there, pacing, watching with tiger eyes. And when he slips free I shudder to think of it. Fingertips on skin, handfuls of hair, the hot beating pulse of a throat captured in hand, teeth brushing across those warm naughty places, bruises, and the music of pained squeals.

~ Smitten

The party is already in full swing when I arrive late. Work. There are lots of people mingling, there always are when Carrie throws a soiree. Lots of conversation and drinking. I weave through the crowd looking for her. polite hello’s to those I know, politer hello’s to those I don’t.

Of course I don’t immediately look for her. There’s a detour to the bar to make up for some lost time.

While I’m there a blonde girl, cute, chats me up. She’s wearing something that leaves her shoulders bare. My eyes wander across the exposed skin. Ivory, smooth and lovely. I notice however that there are no freckles, and while that hasn’t been a traditional like, tonight the lack of them makes me pause. After a moment of pleasantries, I excuse myself and go hunting.

Prowling the abode, I’m after a single person. Susan. She’s here somewhere but as always, hard to find. A flash of copper hair and I halt my course. I’ve circled around behind her and watch for a moment. She’s alone, nursing a wine glass, knowing her just enjoying a moments peace before being hit on. She’s wearing one of her favorite dresses, a mod inspired one piece with rounded square patterns on it. It’s low cut at the neck, only reaches down to mid thighs, and shows off her shape well. The other girls in the room go unnoticed, mere background of the want I feel so strongly for this one. Where they all fade into shadows her dainty sip is like beacon of light in the gloom. I move in after a moment of admiration.

Reaching out an open hand comes to the small of her back, just an instant before I press my chest to one of her shoulders. I lean forward letting my nose brush through her firey mane, inhaling her. It causes an unexpected moan, a purr really as she turns her head, sees who it is, then leans back into me. A perrs in a glove. I brush a check against hers as my lips place a kiss just under her ear where the jawline take a hard right turn.

Bent over her like this my eyes can’t help wandering down to her chest. The angle allowing my see right down the dress. Freckles, a field of them, a starry night of them, a thousand pin pricks of lust dotting my mind.

In the middle of the crowd my lips come to her ear. I don’t care if anyone hears. I don’t care what anyone things. I whisper, “You are so hot I want to fuck you right now.”

She looks up at me and something deviant dances in her eyes, perhaps the very thought of that image planted, right here in the center of the party, in front of everyone. Her desire is reflected right back at me. She turns to me and pulls me down into a long kiss, the waves rolling through her body affirming that I’d said just the right thing.

Americana; A Road Trip from Boise to Los Angeles

Relocating to another city, the new company offers to fly me and I decline. Why fly over the vast stretches of absolutely gorgeous countryside? I explain that I’ll drive it instead, I enjoy the quiet, the lonely road, the time with nothing to do but think for mile upon mile.

Leaving Boise, not really my home, but where parts of my family are from. Some I hadn’t seen in decades. Being laid off gave me a chance to do something I never have while working, take a vacation. The mountains and pines vanish replaces by long open stretches of scrub covered in thin snow.

Avoiding the main roads to set out on back country ones. Empty stretches from horizon to horizon fore and aft. When I finally do spot a car in the distance it takes nearly ten minutes to go past in the opposite direction.

Seeing a vulture for the first time. It feeds on the side of the road, lifting off finally as I approach. It’s passage into the air is with a grace that is surprising for a creature so hideous it almost has a beauty of its own. The vast wing span is much wider than my sedan. I slow to watch in circle languidly back around to the roadkill it had been cleaning.

A speeding ticket for 6 miles over the posted limit. There are no towns, villages, or hovels marking the map for hundreds of miles. The officer is awfully nice and a little embarrassed, perhaps the county’s only source of income.

Shadows on the freeway becoming 3 young does. They watch my car approach almost with indifference, then bound off into the snow. I honk in hopes that it will make them a little more concerned about crossing the road.

Traversing 30 miles of unplowed icy passes. Only a little tense, certainly nothing worse than I ever saw in Alaska. This was the only snow on the road the whole trip.

The worst snow falling as I enter Los Angeles. Other drivers are slowing to take pictures of it. Some reaching out of their cars to touch it as it falls. I never entertained the notion of living in LA. Could this be a sign that hell froze over?

And finally Los Angeles. Palm trees. Sunset Strip, Santa Monica Boulevard, Beverly Hills. The stuff I’ve grown up seeing as a magic place on TV. Now real. And a little shabbier with many more people than on the silver screen. This should make for interesting adventure.

Dexter Morgan gets it

TV usually isn't my thing, but someone turned me on to Dexter, a show about a serial killer that channels his inner demons to hunt down worse people than himself. He ends up having to go to an Narc Anon meeting and introduce himself. This leads to a confession that the audience thinks is about drug use, when he's really talking about something so much more sinister...

"I just know there's something dark in me and I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to."

It's an uncanny feeling to hear someone else express the baggage that I've always carried inside me. Even if it isn't about exactly the same thing.

~ Breathe

I take a hold of her throat and squeeze. Her eyes flutter open looking up at me, her moans cease.

The flesh is hot, burning in my hand. I can feel her pulse thrumming steadily on fingertips. Her hands bound over her head cannot ward me off. She lifts her jaw to me, offering what’s left of her breath. My lips curl into a wicked smile, such a good girl.

My pace slows. Each thrust controlled. Letting her feel me inside. Those two points of contact are her whole universe. Her mouth is open, seductive and inviting. She blinks slowly drawing a long breath with difficulty. I relish the power to stop her breathy moans in an instant, to change her experience of this intimacy with so simple a motion. She’s my puppet.

I whisper while still moving in her leisurely, “You were about to cum, weren’t you?”

She struggles to nod.

“Bad girl. You know you are supposed to ask.”

She pleads with just her eyes.

I press my lips to her ear, “You were just going to slip over that edge, blame it on your subconscious. I’m sorry sir it just happened. That’s what you were going to say wasn’t it?”

One nod with effort.

“Very bad girl. You don’t get to blame you subconscious now. I’ve bridged both by holding your throat.”

Her eyes tell me she doesn’t quite get it.

“There are things we do consciously and subconsciously. Undressing, getting into bed, those are conscious decisions, things you thought about and did. Flipping your hair when you laugh, or gasping rapidly when you’re about to come, those are the unthinking actions your subconscious controls. Breathing is both. You can do with out thought, but if you stop a moment and think, you can alter it. It’s the bridge between your two halves.”

I thrust into her suddenly causing a gasp. As she looks up at me I can my passion building in tempo along with the frequency of my thrusts. I want to lose control in her, to let Hyde just have his way, but I need to finish the thought.

“When you are about to cum you need to slow your mind down by concentrating on breathing. It’s what I do when Hyde wants to abuse you, when you make him so hot and beside himself that he rattles his cage. I breathe, fixate on it, and keep him locked away.

I adore the clever ones. As she blinks understanding I resume my frenzied pace. She tries to breathe slowly as I release her throat but by now I’m so enflamed with wanting that I’m fucking her savagely. Using her. And I know she relishes it because even though she tries to breathe, she hits that apex and cries out.

My smile down at her feral. Even after a time out she’s still been a bad girl. I stop my own controlled breathing and let Hyde out to have his way.

~ Just Average

“I think I’m just average looking,” she says.

“What did you just say?” I ask.

“I’m just average looking,” she says with a little hesitancy. I rarely ask her to repeat anything.

It infuriated me instantly. Not just that she would express such a thing aloud, but that she would even think it.

Hyde rattles his cage, desperate to get out and make her pay for what she’s just said. I agree, punishment is need, but she has to understand why. Hyde will have to wait just a little longer. But there’s nothing wrong with letting a little bit of him out now.

I grab her hair and yank down, bringing her to the floor on her knees. She gasps in surprise and grabs for my wrist. This reaction from me is definitely unexpected.

“Get your hands down.” I hiss at her, no louder than a strong whisper.

She goes down to all fours wincing as I guide her along with that leash of hair. A little cruelly, but she’s kindled dark emotions. It's her fault that she’s suffering now really.

“Stay.” I whisper into her ear. I can feel the heat radiating off her against my lips. Normally I’d nip at her ears, run my nose along a cheek, enjoy her warmth, but not now. I release her hair and stalk off.

When I return to the room and she looks back over a shoulder at me.

My hand meets her bare ass with a loud crack. “I said stay.”

She goes back to how I left her, eyes closed tight, her ass wriggling, feeling the burn of that palm print placed with a little more force than usual. She has no idea how young the night is.

I set the mirror down in front of her. She opens her eyes, looks at herself, then at me confused.

“What did you say earlier?” I demand.

“That I’m average?”

I strike her again. Hard.

“What did you say?”

“Average, just average.”

I let Hyde out. Or perhaps he escapes using my anger as cover. His hand strikes her perfect ass repeatedly. Buried in her hair is his other fist, holding her head up, forcing her to look to the mirror. The relentless crack of skin on skin fills the room. He holds nothing back, simply beating her ass. His fingers tingle and go numb, a fiery pain seeps into them. He doesn’t care, he continues, enjoying the music of her protesting squeals.

When she squirms, a blow lands in an awkward place. It breaks the rhythmic fleshy sounds of palm striking bare bottom. She tries to curl up breaking her confrontation with the mirror.

He yanks back on her hair, “You better get that ass back up in the air.”

She says something he doesn’t quite want to comprehend, lost in the blood music of sensual violence. He sits on the floor yanking her ass to him, forcing her to continue looking at herself in the mirror. His legs are under her as he begins again. Long hard fast strokes, their sound like a machine in the room. She dances on all fours, crying pleading. He keeps striking her again and again and again.

She collapses into him, begging. He wraps a leg around her back, capturing her in the scissors of his thighs. The blows rain down. She struggles against him, thrashing, pleading. He keeps striking. At some points the tears start. She digs her nails into his thigh. He rips back on her hair, whispering that she better do as told.

In the mirror I watch the mascara runs down her cheeks. It’s time to put Hyde back in his cage. This is difficult to do when his blood has reached a full boil. Hyde and I struggle. He takes a few more swings, then he’s locked mostly away. Mostly.

I pull back on her hair. She looks at me through the mirror pleading. I slap her ass again. She still has no idea.

“Can you feel me?” I ask.

She nodds, squirming, perhaps thinking there’s some position that will cool her burning flesh.

Uncertain if she really understands I grind against her, “Can you feel me, really feel me.”

“Yes,” she whispers in a throaty seductive voice choked with tears.

“Do think my arousal would come for just average?” I ask while continuing to grind against her, letting her feel the passion that she’s ignited. I want her. I want in her. I want to throw her down and savage her right here on the floor.

She closes her eye. I yank on her hair again refusing to let her escape into subspace.

“How dare you?” I hiss. “How dare you think that I could have this reaction for just average.” I grind painfully against her.

What are you?” I ask, forcing her to look at herself as she answers.

“I, I, I…” She doesn’t know what to say.

I slap her ass again, with everything I have, it sounds like a gunshot in the room. 

“You are beautiful,” I whisper close so she can feel the breath on her ear. “Say it.”

She hesitates and I strike her again.

“I’m beautiful,” she says halfheartedly.

My hand whistles through the air striking her yet again. “Don’t ask me, look at yourself and mean it.”

“I’m beautiful,” she says to herself.

She must be numb, or floating in some hidden garden in her mind. She barely flinches when I slap her, “Once more with feeling.”

“I’m beautiful.” I strike her.

“Again” I demand.

She repeats it again, and again, and again. And when my hands is deadened, arm aching with effort, it finally begins to sound like she actually means it.

~ Presents

Her email is simple and to the point, “Do you want me trimmed or shaved?”

In that instant my day is ruined. Her cunt will be on my mind.

“Surprise me,” I send back.

It distracts all day long. As I work, one part of my mind keeps flashing images of her muff in all it various forms. Landing strips, hearts, a dot of thatch, and smooth bare skin. No matter how much I try to focus or fixate at tasks at hand, her tight little slit and its dressing haunt me. I go to sleep alone that night thinking about it, pleasuring myself to it. I’m already looking forward to unwrapping it.

A cross country flight later she greets me at the door. She wears a simple summer dress and a collar. I attack her, maul her, take kisses from her.

I’m more than ready to open my present, discover the answer to her surprise. We end up the bed and I fight the dress off her. Barely enough to uncover her, but enough to play. I rip parts away from her so that it can ever be worn again. Through the ruined fabric I find she’s wrapped in yet another layer. A simple black thong is that masks her. In yet in hiding her reveals her as well. I can see the curves of her, the center of her universe through the silky material. Just shapes, but shapes of things to cum.

I savor this hurdle. Wonder how long she’s been wearing these panties today. All day, or just since I called warning her I was near. Knowing that I’d be on her soon. The hurdle enflames passions again. Relishing this I don’t want it to end. Instead I worship her through the panties. Biting and nipping, trying to taste her through them. They’re damp, she’s been eager herself.

As I press my face into her I can hold back no more, The animal wants her, Wants to sink into her. Wants to fuck her. The fuck through her. To use her. To explode inside her. And to continue using her until we are both raw and howling in pain, the ache of fucking making us float in clouds of sated exhaustion.

Unable to control myself any longer I yank them aside. Smooth bare skin. She shaved completely for me. Her little gift before offering herself up completely.

“Bad girl.” I say.

She replies but the animal has taken over. A thatch of something would have made me step back, considered her like artwork, cool hot passions in a moment of thought. Instead she’s driven me to a new carnal high. I want her. Want to hurt and abuse her for making the beast inside want so urgently.

Lapping at her, drinking her, I want nothing more than to hear her exhale noisily. My tongue lapping hungrily at her as my cock throbs a mile away. Fixated on her I devour too turned on to even change position. And knowing that she caused all of this, created this ache and desire, by offering a present.

~ In Sickness

“What are you?” I ask. My face is hovering over hers, just inches away.

“Your whore cunt.” She whispers. Almost as if she’s ashamed to say it.

I slam my hips into hers. No gentleness. Like I’m trying to hurt her. Each thrust is hard, crushing her into the mattress. The bedsprings squeal in protest. My fingers behind her head tighten, clutching a fistful of hair in a death grip. She winces her face screwing up in a way that’s beautiful. If I can hurt her I can make her feel. Something deep down whispers to me, tells me there’s something wrong me. I’m sick on sick. But seeing her react merely fans the flames. That she doesn’t protest simply magnifies my desires. A downward spiral, I hurt her, she accepts it, I lust for her more.

I ask her again between sweaty grunts, “What are you?”

“Your cunt whore.” She moans.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Your. Cunt. Whore.” She replies through clenched teeth. Spitting the words out at me. Perhaps as disgusted with herself as I am with my disgusting cravings.

That thought slows me down. If she loathes herself for enjoying be debased does that make her an object of pity? My cock screams no. Hearing her say those things make me so hard it’s almost painful. I want to punish her for doing this to me. Using the very tool that she has affected so deeply.

She grasps at me. Not with her hands, they’re pinned over her head in one of my palms. Her hips thrust up trying to satisfy herself. Bad girl. She’s just there to sate my desires. My whore. My cunt. But her efforts provoke even more desire. I want her to want, to crave, to wantonly follow her lust wherever it may take her.

I pull back, nearly withdrawing. She makes a noise and opens her eyes to look up at me. She doesn’t say anything, just pleads with her pale blue eyes. Crystal blue, glacieral, early dawn blue. A haunting color that takes my breath from me. I hate that she has even that little power over me. My cock screams for more, throbbing just out of her reach. I want nothing more than to slam back into her. But it is not my master.

“Beg.”

Disgust ripples across her face. She closes her eyes and thrusts her hips at me. Trying to steal from me.

I release her wrists long enough to slap her. She makes an exaggerated gasp. The same one every time.

“I said beg.” I whisper in her ear. Her soft cheek is against mine, pressed hard to my stinging stubble.

“Please.” She whispers back. Her breath lights fires in my ear.

“Please what?” I tease. I tease elsewhere too, letting her feel how ready for her I am taking pain to remain just out of her grasp.

“I was so close. Please finish.”

“I?” Another slap. She doesn’t get to refer to herself that way.

Through gritted teeth, “Please fuck your whore cunt,” she hisses.

I grind against her and look down as if considering.

“Please fuck your whore cunt.” She says loudly.

The animal can hold back no longer. Pinned down she can do nothing as I slam into her again. She’ aflame, drenched, and gratifying, gripping me like a gloved fist. I become a frenzy. Hammering into her. Slick with sweat and desire I am not more than a grunting howling beast. Sating my needs through her. Her sharp cries further encourage me. The bed sings an altogether different song of protest.

“I’m cumming.” She whispers from a far off place.

I slap her. Again and again. Her cries only change slightly.

“You whore cunt is cumming.”

She stiffens, arches, thrashes, and struggles to escape. I relax my weight on her crushing her down. The animal inside me keeps stabbing deep into her. Snarling now, close myself.

There is light, and electricity, and clouds. She speaks words that once were understood now are just notes in a larger song. Colors and fury begin to fade. I float back to earth settling on her slick body heavy with breath. Gasping for air trying to cool the smoldering embers inside me.

And those evil thoughts, hurting her, shaming her, taking her, all come flooding back. Dimmed down to an almost non-existence against the blinding fury of that zenith of lust just crested. Spent and weary we relish the afterglow, each nursing those many reopened wounds that lead us to this point. Relishing how the wrongness simply elicits more desire.

~Angie

When I see her on all fours it stirs something immediately. She wears wrist and ankle cuffs, black leather that’s more decorative then functional. They’re really just there for the thought, if she tugged hard enough they’d snap off. I like them however, they’re dainty and feminine, and remind her in their presence alone of what she is. The collar is the same, too thin, but when I hook a finger in its metal loop and pull, she comes just as she’s supposed to.

A yearning moan escapes me. Her hazel eyes look up and meet mine. She knows that just my initial glance at her has affected me, she can feel my passions igniting. A smile plays across luscious lips. Indecent thoughts ignite. Her lips are thick, covered in just a hint of maroon, perfect cock sucking lips. I shoot her a dangerous look, she knows better than to look straight into my eyes during inspection.

As her gaze breaks away mine slides across her bare back. The shape and curve of her merely adding fuel to my already burning desires. I want her, right now, to simply bury a hand in her hair and take her, mount her, have her, and sate myself in her.

I restrain Hyde, knowing that lingering and savoring this will make the release later much more intense. I’m not strong enough however to resist dropping to one knee and snatching a fistful of hair. It’s been straightened to get most of the kink out (which is a funny thought considering our relationship) but it’s sticky, hard to run a hand through. Taking a handful poses no problem and I pull her head back admiring the shape of her exposed throat.

“You’ve been such a good girl, you know you aren’t supposed to look until you ask for permission.”

She whispers an apology, I know she wants to be a good girl. She loves being told she is. My eyes move down her bare again to her full ass. She’ll get some swats, make noises, drive me past that tipping point where Hyde escapes and has his way. And finish with my finger tracing curves in soft flesh while she curls contently in the crook of an arm. I’ll tell what a good girl she’s been, which probably is more fulfilling to her than the climate peak we’ve surmounted.

Angie does this to me every time. Just the hint of sex sparks something wicked and deviant. She’s taboo. And when my eyes drink in that rich ebony skin of hers it kindles something wanton within. Seeing the occasional odd looks in public, even in this enlightened age, makes me feel wicked. It stirs something deep down, in that place where I keep Hyde caged. And sometimes, out in public, I let him slip free for a moment. Long enough to take hold of her hair, pull her head back, and kiss her. And the alienation of awkward stares dissipates like mist in the sun, consumed by a hunger to have her so strong that I don’t care what anyone thinks. Her chocolate skin satiating oh so depraved and oh so filling desires. I want her. So badly that nothing else matters.

~ Girl in the Box

I drag the steamer trunk over the easy chair. Roughly. I want her to feel being jostled around like luggage. And she’ll feel every bit of it, crammed in a box that really is much too small for her.

She’s nothing right now, just furniture. Blindfolded and curled into a tight fetal position I know her other senses are in over drive. Every muscle that aches in protest burning all that much hotter. Every sound made that much louder, the creak of me reclining into the chair. Feels the thump as my feet turn her cage into an ottoman. And knowing the whole time that I am just there, just inches away, unseen, unfelt. Perhaps wondering if I’m thinking of using her. Pulling her out and sinking myself into her. Leaving on the blindfold and harness, not even touching her except as needed to sate my thirsts. Just furniture.

As I turn pages going through my book I wonder if she can hear them. If that’s become a type of clock for her. Locked away in darkness she has nothing else. Hours, what must seem like days with no other sensory, pass. Is she silently pleading for use, desperate to do anything to stretch, even just a little. Willing to offer herself up in lurid ways for even a small reprieve. Was it wrong to lock her hands away from herself? So that she cannot escape her confinement though the pleasure of a thousand little deaths? It hardly matters, she’s there til I want.

The television sits dark, wasted. It would serve much better as an instrument of torment. It only takes a few moments to find exactly the right thing. A girl bound, ordered about by her owner, used, her moans loud enough to be heard by the girl in the box. But that’s so clinical, not nearly personal enough for me. And so I skim to the best parts of my book. Began reading them aloud. Letting her hear my voice. Pausing for dramatic effect, moaning after particularly hot parts. Wondering just how stifling it is in there. The scent of herself mixing in with what little air there is heated by the close confinement of her own body. An itch burning with fiery want, unable to be sated.

Hyde of course is screaming. Take her! Fuck her! Ravish that cunt! Brutally, until the flesh feels as if it will burn away. But, I’m the one in charge here. Not her. Not him. I relish that control, that denial of want. Because I know when I finally taste it, drink deeply from desire it will have been amplified, a sexual frenzy cranked up to eleven.

~ Entwined

There had been no kissing on the first date, sort of a long standing rule of mine. Second dates were different. My hands were in her hair, pulling her this way and that. Teasing her by leaning in close, watching as she’d part her lips in anticipation, her becoming slits, her head tilting dreamily back. Only to run my nose along her chin, inhaling her. Or press my face into her mane. But no kiss, just yet.

She’d texted to say that lunch, our first meeting had been interesting. Only Jekyll went. It was difficult to tell if there was interest still there. We’d both played very good. Too good really, with all the dark thoughts swirling just under the surface. There was some texting a few hours later.

“Invite me over.” I texted after some initial teasing. After a long pause, and some more questions she did.

I pulled her into a hug, hands roaming where they pleased. Blood singing its music as it heated thoroughly. The urge to crush her lips, to drink deeply from her damn near overwhelming. But wasn’t happening. Instead I teased. Almost kisses. The threat of lips ever present. I was still in control, Hyde howling for release. I wanted that first taste. But not like this, so mundane. I wanted something that would be memorable.

We end up on her bed somehow, the hands moving across her clothed body wiping other memories clean. My teeth find neck, ears. Hands buried in hair pull her this way and that. She ends up in my lap, facing me, on the edge of the bed. The t-shirt becomes a barrier, I want hands on skin without having to find ways around it.

After a long bite in the crook of a shoulder I grab the offending garment. I yank it up over her, but stop before pulling it off her head. Her arms and head are trapped in it. No handcuffs, no fancy blindfolds. Just a t-shirt performing those functions. She says words, but I barely hear. She’s bound, blindfolded. I grab her wrists, now she trapped like that. She doesn’t protest, instead coos. A luscious sound. I run my nose along her bare neck, press my face between breasts and it’s too much. The smoldering embers of lust enflame. I want her.

Teasing is cast aside as I lean in take my first kiss from her. Bound, helpless, unable to see or resist. Which drove me to take more, crush lips to me, take from her. An awkward kiss because she was entwined in that t-shirt. But oh so delicious and perfect. And hungrily returned.

~ The Whisper

The party was awful, something I’d have gladly gnawed a foot off to avoid. Lots of very safe conversations, and very controlled drinking. My experience with office parties has always been disappointing, too steeped in politics and consequences for participants to truly enjoy them.

The drinks were free and I was definitely taking them as compensation for the company. And no, I didn’t care if the feelings with her co-workers was equally shared.

Susan on the other hand was simply radiant. A short evening dress the color of crushed velvet. Her coppery hair expertly molded just so. And silver jewelry to highlight her appearance. She looked like Christmas. And like an inpatient child I could think of nothing but unwrapping gifts.

Talking to someone or other I approached her and placed on her back. In a dignified spot at the small of her back, I knew to be good in public. As she talked however I let the hand roam, no place that would cause embarrassment, I swear I was on my best behavior. On occasion however I would let it glide up to where skin was exposes, up mind you, shoulders and spine between. Did I mention how hard I was playing at being good?

Finally after what seemed like weeks, but really had only been another drink or two, we were alone. I snuck a peek to make sure, glancing hither and yon to make absolute certain we had just an instant of privacy. We did.

I leaned into her and whispered, in the middle of this ridiculously busy party…

“I can’t wait to take you home, I’m going to throw you down, rip off that dress, and fuck you savagely.”

Her pale skin turned a shade of crimson to match the dress. The hand on my back however pulled me close, nails digging into me in rather pleasant ways. In the same way my whisper had told her how much I wanted and desired her, her nails did the exact same. Without another soul knowing.

Probably a good thing I didn’t mention the handcuffs.

~ Little Red Riding Hood

I catch her scent, just a wisp on the air. It has a power over me, transforms me. Instantly makes me yearn to taste her. Sucking in lungfuls I want more. Much more.

Casting aside briefcase and jacket I bound through the forest of her home. I stop sniff and pick up her track. The urge to howl at the moon is damn near overpowering. The thought of her helpless and quivering constricts my chest makes drawing breath difficult. With a jerk, I rip the necktie from my throat.

Cornered she looks up, tomorrow’s lunch basket forgotten. Wide eyes quiver, she raises a hand, and I am on her. Crushing her to me I lift and spin. Teeth find the gentle curve of soft lips and burry themselves into flesh. She arches backward, the raised arm desperately trying to push back. Struggles, delicious. Her thrashing resolve weakens, putty, warm and heavy in my arms. She gasps as the seal of lips breaks. Blinking dreamily she only watches as bared fangs descend. Pulsing beating neck, scent and taste of it overwhelm the senses. Heat and musk intoxicating, driving me to see through veils of crimson desire. Hands now in hair pull her back.

Tumbling, falling, I collapse on little red. And still I want more. Clothes tear as I devour her, seeking out that essence. Holding her, pinning her down under my weight. And then the howling glorious howling, cold moon forgotten now in the heat of entwined flesh.

“Mmmm, my what big eyes you had,” I murmur afterwards.

She slugs my shoulder, “Damn it, that was my line.”

~ Coils

The ropes go around Susan’s wrists easily. She laughs, this is something new, something she’s never done before. All fun and games. She holds her arms in front of here, a fist width of space between them. Smirking as I loop the coils.

“It’s too loose. I’ll be able to slide out easily.”

There’s five or six coils, doubled. I wrap the rope around her wrists twice at a time, almost done. I take the remainder, and there’s a lot, and loop it once around the coils. Holding it like a leash now, I stop and look at her smirking myself.

“Really? So you think you’ll be able to slip out huh?”

She looks dubiously down at the coils, the final loop has tightened her bindings, but its still quite slack.

Before she can answer, I take the leash of rope and pull it up over her head. The motion and position of her arms tightens the coils. Not enough to cut off circulation, but firm enough to keep her from escaping. I pull the leash down her back snuggly and hold it. In one movement, I’ve got her bound hands firmly behind her head. Her elbows are high, chest shoved out suggestively.

A foot on the back of her knees guides her down to the floor.

“How’s this feel? Still think you can slip away?”

Her breathe is caught in her chest. Kneeling, hands bound, and me holding the leash. Doe eyes look up. Her smirk has vanished.

~ A bite on the neck

Snarling I bite her neck. She makes a long groan, her hands find my chest in an effort to shove me away. She doesn’t know it’s too late. Our hard bruising kisses and exploring hands have lead to this. One of my hands coiled in her hair, forces her to look skyward. I imagine a pained expression lost somewhere in ambivalence. My teeth on the curve of bare skin, imagining myself sucking life, beauty, passion from her. Really, it’s her fault. She makes efforts to submit, poor ones, laced with defiant looks and biting sarcasm. It brings out the worst in us.

She can’t go anywhere. While the one hand is buried in a leash of mane, the other is at the small of her back. Pulling her into me. Crushing our bodies together. I’m high on the struggle. Feeling her writhe and squirm. But only enough to entice me. She pushes and we crash into walls, a banister, then down onto stairs. I make sure to capture her beneath my weight. Crush her. Pin her down in an awkward position. Tongue and breath on her neck makes it all seem so far away, her body almost dismissed from the ghost world. The flames of passion licking up from her core. Carrying her to something ethereal. That peak of ecstasy still enslaved to the flesh a world away.

The carpet on the stairs is beige. The devil’s color. A color of meeting rooms and cubicles. Of stiff button up shirts and humorless spreadsheet and numbers. A color never found in the deep of woods. Nor howling at the moon. A tone so devoid of life it drives me into a rage. Makes me see red though eyelids wrenched shut. Drives me grind against her, seeking only my own pleasure. Her struggles just egging me on. Wanting to own and possess her.

My toy groans, the exertion taking its toll on us. Her hand has found my hair, ripping me up from her neck. Between pants, I open my eyes and see the colors of passion and desire. The urge to howl is overwhelming.

~ Selena in the Air

Suspended in the air she twists, flips and spreads her arms like a bird caught frozen in flight. I can't help but deeply admire Sarah's new profession. She's been performing as an aerialist for two years now. Her routine is breathtaking in so many ways, her mastery of this new skill exquisite, enticing, and like everything about her, erotic.

Two long silk sheets of fabric hang from the ceiling. Not stretched out but gathered, with a few flicks of the wrist they can be coiled nearly into ropes. A spot light shows the clearly in the otherwise dark room. The audience waits, chatting, drinking.

Selena is introduced by her stage name and she makes quite the appearance. A light green body stocking with dark leaves embroidered. Her copper hair is hidden under a black bob wig. Her eyeshadow a deep emerald. Spring is here, thoughts of meadows, glades, and deep dark foresty places. The body stocking hides and reveals everything. Her body has changed, muscular, athletic, but still lithe and erotic to its core. She poses in front of her aerial silks waiting.

The music begins and she climbs. I watch as muscles work under a thin veneer of fabric. Remembering how those same muscles worked and strained ages ago, bare with a sheen of sweat. I can't help but think of other things I'd like her to climb. Her body working its way up to the peak.

Limbs dance to a music we have both loved. The silks twine around limbs. A self inflicted bondage. And then she falls. Defying gravity the bonds catch her, hold her in place. As the music beats on she twists, turns, cavorts. Silken bonds dance across her body, wrapping he twice, three times around a muscled thigh. She shifts and poses in sync with the beat. Her smile dazzling. The poetry of her motion enthralling the audience. I gasp remembering long ago times, those same limbs bare, her energetic thrashing kindling old desires. Imagining myself twining that ilk about her, capturing limbs as she struggles, dances suspended in the air. And as if she can tell what I'm thinking she catches me in her gaze, brilliant smile warning as it touches. Blood heats up as she sways.

Warm tickling memories return to haunt me. Our affair a decade old and buried. But still that lingering heat. That wisp of desire that rattles its cages. Want to bind her suspended in the air. And take her take her take her.

~ A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

The switch whispered a cutting sound that John didn't like when he slashed it through the air. He knew he had to do this right, fucking her would come soon after. This would hurt, bad, but that's what the bitch wanted, and he was just the one to give it to her.

He'd found the site while looking for porn and his eyes had been opened to a whole new world. He was shocked to find out there were people out there that openly admitted to having extreme sexual tastes. The men he understood, who wouldn't want some little whore to be fucked on command. Or tied up and beat, to pay for being the little cockteases they were. But that there were women out there that wanted the same thing blew his mind. Finding himself a little slut on the side, someone that would do the things his wife wouldn't became an obsession.

Signing up and creating a profile was easy. He simply wrote about his needs, his desires, no matter how sophomoric. It didn't matter what the women wanted, he'd tell them, otherwise they weren't trues subs. Midnight fantasies of some doormat slut became frequent. He looked forward to the day he would tie up some tramp, beat her, fuck her, then dismiss her. He was certain that was all these sluts that called themselves subs wanted, an excuse for casual sex.

The next part had been much more difficult than he'd anticipated. He told woman, many woman, what he wanted. That he planned to use them, tell them what they desired no matter how much they protested, use them, and order them to wait for their next use.Uuntil the next time he had a moment away from his wife to fuck the them again. But most of the subs turned him down. Some insultingly so. Offended that he'd cared nothing for what their needs or wants were. He replied back, often, that they weren't true subs. If they were they'd certainly have recognized a true sir.

Then he'd gotten a reply from SadieJustSadie. She was curious. Intrigued by his crassness and simplicity of vision. He had to admit he was interested as well. Unlike the other subs she'd never made demands, asked for safety words, or inquired about his wife or life outside the kink. She was perfect, and so he pressed to meet her. She'd agreed culminating in his coming to her home, since his had been out of the question for reasons he never explained.

The switch whistled through the air again as he gave it another swing. He was a little nervous and knew it, but he couldn't let her see. His plan was to hit her a few times then fuck her. He licked his lips in anticipation, the kinky website was delivering exactly what he'd been looking for cheap, meaningless, casual sex.

Her place was interesting, about what he'd expected when he arrived. She lived in an ancient building with dark stained bricks. An art gallery occupied the address she'd given, but she had explained that her loft below it was entered from an alley in the back. He'd knocked on a sliding steel door and waited a long time, long enough to wonder if she'd sent him bogus address as a joke. Finally she answered pulling the door aside. He'd been surprised, she was hotter than her picture online, pale ivory skin, raven hair put up in pig tales as he'd asked. She was also wearing what he'd demanded, white button up shirt, neck tie, and a short skirt. His wife would have never worn the school girl outfit, and possibly would have wondered about him given their daughter's age. Sadie had not only worn it, but looked good, fucking good in it. He knew he had to play this cool to get her out if the outfit and him into her.

He'd grabbed her, kissing roughly as they fumbled their way down the wooden steps to her basement loft. One hand grabbed a fistful of hair yanking on it hard, harder than he'd have ever dreamed. She moaned and looked at him with unfathomable dark eyes. Her bright red lips curling to snarl. Ignoring her he'd smacked her ass. Hard to teach this slut a lesson. She sighed when he missed her cheeks instead hitting a hip or elbow. Instead of complaining she'd pulled him through a huge dim room, so large the corners were cloaked in blackness. Past heavy steel doors, deeper into the depths. He wanted to protest, catch his bearing, but the allure of sex drove him deeper in.

Finally she pulled him into a room, a large dim room with crumbling bricks walls. A bare bulb suspended from a wire lit the room. A large bed with elaborate metal frame dominated one wall. Against another was was dresser with vanity mirror, an ottoman in front of it. He shoved her toward the bed, excited when he saw coils of rope waiting on one corner of it. He threw her down to her knees pushing her face into the mattress. Pulling her arms behind he he fumbled for a few moments with a length of rope. Two loops around each wrist then he tied a knot, a granny the only one he knew. She groaned and he stepped back looking down at her. He was so excited he wanted to fuck her right then. Screw any more foreplay. The ropes bit into her skin, somewhere deep down he suspected two loops might be cutting off circulation. He didn't care, he'd fuck her and release her before any permanent damage set in. Or not.

She looked over to the dresser and his eyes followed. There on one corner was the switch. It was as if it had been placed there for him to discover. He walked over to it, thought for a moment, then drew what would be his sexual Excalibur.

Finally after the third swish he felt confident. He could beat her with this. Even if he did it wrong he knew he'd fuck her. They were alone it wasn't like she could stop him. She was still half on the bed, her ass waiting. Licking his lips he pulled her skirt up. Bitch was wearing a thong when he'd told her not too. No matter it wouldn't protect her now. He stared at her pale flesh imaging what it would be like to sink into her.

“Whenever you're ready,” Sadie said looking back at him.

“I'll let you know when I'm ready cunt.” He struck her with the switch, hard.

Her laughter wasn't what he'd expected. Angry he struck her again, then again. She continued laughing. Forgetting sex he thought only of making this stupid bitch pay. He struck again and again the switch whistling down to make a wet snap as it struck skin. She continued laughing. Furious he hit harder, harder, his arm a blur of motion as he beat her. Her white skin tiger striped with dark red. He lost himself in it, a fury of anger. Who was this cunt to laugh at him?

The switch shattered. Dumbfounded he stared at the small piece still in his hand breathing heavy. He wasn't sure what to do, he looked around the room for another switch. Her laughter snapped him back. She was looking up at him with her dark eyes.

Flexing her arms the ropes snapped. Before he could blink she had lifted herself from the bed with a ballerina's grace. He caught a glimpse of dark nail polish as one of her arms lashed out, fingers biting into his throat. The world spun as he looked into her eyes, they'd gotten so close, then bright lights exploded as his head was smashed into a brick wall. He couldn't breath, couldn't scream. Her eyes swirled the pupils becoming black blossoms, blood roses and thorns. He noticed her teeth and his insides seized up. He wondered dimmly where the fangs had come from.

“And now for a kiss,” She said with a sneer, then added mockingly, “Sir.”

He tried to scream but it caught in his throat as she descended on his neck. Lightning shot through his body as the most intense orgasm of his life ripped through his body. As he glided away in a cloud of bliss he noticed the others. Just dark shapes, with pale red eyes, and fangs. So many fangs.

Galatea ~ Greek Mythology and Submission

My favorite Greek myth is Pygmalion and Galatea. Thousands of years before Freud it is laden with overtones of a dominant and submissive relationship.

Pygmalion was an artesian, a sculptor of such mastery that he was unequaled. Yet he could not find a wife. Women did not measure up to his high standards. Rather than settle he decided to create a statue of his vision of what women ought to be. He shaped, and formed, molded and refined his statue until it was such a perfect replica that at time he had to touch it to ensure it was not alive. He was smitten with her and his love so strong that the Goddess Aphrodite breathed life into the work of art.

So where’s the dominance and submission? Dripping from every line.

Having mastered his own life Pygmalion wanted a creature of such allure that nothing else would do. The women he met could not ignite that spark, or kindle that flame of passion. And so he determined to create one. He trained her, taught her, formed her, until her every action was a reflection of his desires. Rough hands honing and smoothing skin. Posing her to enflame. Her actions sating his every desire and causing him to desire her further. Even a thing so little as dressing done to incite. Until he was so consumed with her that nothing else would do. Their yearning flaring into a bonfire of need. And her beauty so singular that nothing else could ever measure. The two entwined as one creature of art and passion.

~ An Unlived Fantasy

Probably not all that shocking here, but I’ve always wanted to share.

I’ve done the two girls threesome with varying results. When they both focused on pleasing me it was a disaster, far too many complex emotions centered on a cro-mag like myself. Guys are simple, it’s different for girls though, much more complex. The second time when my sub was the focus it worked oh so much better. I was able to use her, just use her, while another set of slender hands demanded lurid emotion, provoking new levels of service from her.

But I’ve never shared a girl with another man.

The thought of offering her up to others who want to use her as I do is dizzying. It doesn’t matter if it’s just one, or several, or a multitude. The thought of displaying her like an offering feels wicked to the core. Presenting her, standing behind her, forcing her to pose, while explaining to all present what she is and what the plans are for her.

Sometime she mercifully wears a blindfold so that she doesn’t have to witness all those eyes on her. Consuming her, imagining what she’ll look like moments later when bared. Even dressed she is an object of carnal desire. Something to be used. The wolf pack licking their chops in anticipation of the take down. She always wear a collar though, a neon sign advertising without any confusion that she owned.

Hungry hands descend on her exploring her body casually. Bodies pressed to hers. I hold the collar, fingers under the back of it so she can feel me against her neck. Even as they crowd around her, hands everywhere she knows I’m still there.

I’m the one that pulls her back, down across something. A table, ottoman, a bed if the fantasy borders on the realm of tender. They discuss her loudly. They want more. She’s incited them to peaks of desire. Buttons and zippers fumbled with. When frustrated clothing tears. Eager hands devour exposed flesh, taking, owning, using. As more of her is revealed the men compare her to other girls, she’s just a plaything for them, something to slate lust into. Complete bare now there’s only one last frontier to cross.

Fingers still in her collar I hold her down. My mouth at her ear, the burn of stubble across a cheek. She’s mine to offer them. I let them know they can have her. I understand how desirable she is, know the anticipation they feel, know that they get only a taste.

As they descend on her, use her, fuck her, come back for seconds, I am with her the whole time. Describing all the things she cannot see. Telling her in tender moments how proud of her I am that she’s done this all for me. And Hyde makes sure to tell her the other truths. That he knows. Knows she’s enjoying it. That she loves being so desirable that she can ignite the passions of others, many others. He calls her horribly lurid names. Names he also knows that she takes wicked delight in. That her mirror image of Hyde is here on display. For the moment just a wanton slut using the excuse of service to relish in the music her own depravity.

~  Confessions

“Get you clothes off.” A throaty whisper, no louder than it ever needs to be.

She wants to be desirable, needs to be. In yielding she becomes so. Fingers dance along clasps and zippers. There is the sound of cloth departing skin to lie discarded on the floor. She kneels naked. Legs parted, hands on thighs, chin higher than it should be. Her breath ragged, eyes daring to look up. The emotional wreckage is too much, it clutters everyday thinking. She wants to be desirable but conflicting feelings have piled too high.

Moving behind her she is blindfolded in abruptly. Those defiant eyes put in their place. Her chest swells as she draws in a long slow breath. She can feel my eyes consuming every part of her. Circling like a shark I drink her in reminding myself of the feel of every sensual curve. Imagining phantom hands crawling across her skin. Skin awash in a tide of goose bumps.

There is no masking the sound of bed coils as I sit just in front of her. She could lean down and kiss a foot, or lay her head on clothed thighs. She can feel me sitting there, staring at her. Knowing I am still clothed. Looking down at her bared and exposed. She wriggles a little in uncomfort, or something else. The awkward pause becoming pregnant then cryptlike. She wants motion, deep down somewhere I want it too. Hyde enjoys the discomfort, waiting patiently to see if she’ll continue desperately trying to please, or to break the reverie with her voice. She’s too good a girl.

Reaching down I take a hand and pull her towards me. There are the awkward moments, where she is trying to obey by reading my mind, unsure how I want her to use her body. I tug on her, pulling her up and into my lap. Sitting astride thighs, her bare skin teased by my clothing. Breath still ragged, flushing skin, so close. I want to kiss it but Hyde restrains me. There’s work that needs to be done first. My hands run along her smooth skin, all of it mine. Leaning just so close to her ghosts of lips brush skin, not enough for a kiss, but a wisp of breath across her chest. Inhaling deeply at her neck and pits. Feeling her stiffen, hating how gross that is. A low chuckle from me a hairbreadth over bare arms.

She leans in trying to force my lips to her flesh. She instead gets a playful swat. “Stay still while I admire my plaything.” In the suffocating room it doesn’t have to be any more than a murmur. She breathes out heavily, as if that request is near impossible. The heat of her crotch like a bonfire in my lap. She’s burning with desire. All the defiance forgotten. Not by me though, not by Hyde.

“Susan, you’ve been a bad girl.” My hot breath on her ear, the touch of stubble along one cheek. There’s no answer other than a swallow. She knows what’s coming and she doesn’t like it.

“I want a confession. Every bad thought, every wronged feeling, every petty grievence. I want them now. All of them. Tell me and they’ll all go away.”

Now the part she hates. The part that makes her feel small, spiteful, hateful, little. And she starts telling me. All of it. No feelings spared. Nothing held back (that I’d know about). It comes pouring out. At first this was so difficult that I had to cajole, reassure, pull teeth. Now she knows how the game is played. Any ill feelings she’s harbored come spilling out while I remain silent, impassive, distant. I lean back, can’t have her drawing any comfort while doing this. Its meant to be difficult, a test of sorts. There are accusations and misunderstanding. The impulse to defend myself is strong, but this isn’t about me. I listen to it all, wordlessly.

When she’s done her shoulder slump. As if embarrassed. Maybe wishing she hadn’t said so much, could take some of it back. It all hangs there. She squirms wanting contact. Wanting the emotions to go away and be validated at the same time. A tattered web of ugly misunderstandings and deep dark needs.

“Good girl.” Pulling her into me I crush her in an embrace. I accept all of it. Have heard her at her very worst and still want and desire her. Force her face into a shoulder by a fistful of hair. Naked against my clothed body I want to take her, show her that its more than just words. I desire her in ways stronger than any vanilla relationship I’ve ever had. My chest constricting with need for her. But Hyde’s not done with her just yet. She has to atone.

Turning her, pulling her, I guide her down across my lap. Hands can now roam flesh, they glide up and down thighs, stopping to squeeze owned skin. She knows what comes next and tenses. I kneed her body made mine. A moment of guilty pleasure in an effort to relax, to make the sting less so. Its futile of course, Hyde will extract exactly as much as she wants to offer, which is more than she would ever willingly say.

We spank her. Hyde my horseman driving the ride. Loud cracks fill the room as my palm strikes soft ass. She makes no sounds at first. Just squirms, although I can never tell if from pain or the heat radiating from her. When my hand sings I pause, running it along crimson cheeks. The arm across her back keeps her pinned down as we begin again. Slaps soon joined with gasps and quick yelps. We pause again. Lurid thoughts as I run fingers over her burning skin. Ragged breath coming from her. With all the hurtful things said we’re a still a ways from being done.

With the next round I can feel her shuddering, tensing up after each slap. She’s at that place where she’d say enough if given the choice. I don’t give her that option. “Can you do more for me?” She nods. “You were so bad we need just a few more.” She nods. “You deserve more don’t you?” She nods. “You want to do a few more to please me don’t you?” She nods. Crying she keeps going. This is her atone phase. Where she wants more than anything to stop. But she can’t because I’m there asking for just one more. Pushing her. Putting her in the deep, dark, warm place where everything shrinks down to a single point of pain across her ass.

Confession over, I yank off the blindfold and pull her to me, a long deep passionate kiss, and many more her reward for having taken this journey. Cleansed now, her soul and emotional state sparkly clean we’ll make love. And in the afterglow I’ll stroke her back down to earth, reminding the whole time what a good girl she is. How she enflames desire by cultivating her desirability. Yielding herself to make me want her even more. A very good girl indeed.

Darkest Facet

No matter what you call it, consensual non-consent, ravagement, forced fantasies, rape play, it’s not about hurting, its about passion. But not just passion, it’s about being completely consumed with passion, unable to think or function. Wanting her so badly that he has to have her now, right now, without hesitation. A consuming need that demands to be sated immediately, regardless of the consequences. Blotting out sky and moon, everything but that narrow tunnel vision of lust. She becomes the focal point of his world, all of it reduced to snarling instincts and that primal urge.

Needing, not mere wanting, to feel fistfuls of hair, rough hands claiming smooth flesh, heat and fire as desires ignite fiercely. So immediate is the need that buttons and ties become frustrating obstacles, to be torn, shredded, ripped away. Wrestling, tumbling, collapsing in a heap wherever that need strikes, a bed, a carpeted floor, a stairwell, the deep woods. Mouth tasting skin. The scent of hair and musk and excitement and primal lust all intermingled. Effort and exertion, the sweat of effort before coupling has even happened. The sound of torn clothing as the she is bared, revealed, exposed. Scraps of ruined clothing nothing more than a reminder of civilized society.

Where words flee from the power of that zeal, so that all that remains are growls, snarls, caveman noises of need. Words are too refined, what can, “You’re hair is beautiful,” possibly mean next to grabbing and handful and pressing face into it? Air sucked from her mouth as its crushed under hard bruising kisses. Passion unfettered, a blood red tint of heat and need.

And when she squirms, pushes back, a test, a challenge, a demand of proof that the need is real. Defiant eyes locked on his daring him to overwhelm her. Arms, legs, and bodies entwined struggling to prove whose will is greater. Her an object of such desire that nothing dims her blinding beauty.

The Mundane Couple

Fetish event at a dance club on a Friday night. Lots of pretty little birds chirping in their latex. Lots of posturing and phony smiles. Mechanical routines done on stage. Collars, photos. The attention fetish is in full parade. To degrees no different than any other fetish club-hopping scene. Dim lights, a dance floor, an invisible network of community connections, some cordial, some catty. The same insecurities while staging unshakable confidence. The same people seeing each other and playing out the same motions. Routine.

The whole thing was almost boring. Not because the event itself had been mishandled, but because the people with the attention fetish always dominate these things.

And then they came in. He was wearing khakis and a button up shirt. She had a simple white summer dress. So out of place. Almost alien. And yet absolutely fascinating. They didn’t look like they fit in, or belonged. But they did. They went straight to the dance floor looking very much smitten with each other. It didn’t look like they knew or really talked to too many others. Strangers in a strangle land.

Without knowing them I wondered what sort of passion, how deep the desire must go to be so thoroughly out of place and yet still compelled to be there. The same smoldering needs that drove me to be there. To feel connected. To see others who share the same distorted wants. To have such different plumage and flock regardless. It was beautiful.

Another couple caught my eye. In their forties, absent from the dance floor all night until the DJ played a string of eighties remakes. The old tunes even with new voice had caused something buried to bubble forth. They were teens again, dancing wildly to old familiar music. Passion to move rekindled.

Which reminded me of SELF (a bondage conference in the south) last year. Play nights were a mix of interesting and routine. Boring displays of whips, crops and cattails being used with machine like precision. The same recorded cries. And yet one couple caught my eye. Both a little chubby, the attention fetishist would have ignored them without a second thought. He whispered in her ear, stroked her, she closed her eyes and disrobed. She was bound and suspended, again he whispered in her ear. So tender, so loving, I was annoyed that louder couples all around didn’t quite get this perfect little scene in all their wailing to be noticed. Then he struck her, with his hands, flaggers, paddles, maybe a kitchen sink. I was spellbound. Watching him whisper to her, assure her, stroke her, and blindfolded each time she would nod. Willing to go one step further for him. Pushed to her limits, shaking and helpless. Eventually she came down and they embraced for ages. I wanted to clap. Maybe even wave a lit lighter over my head. It had been that much more interesting than anything else on display. In its own way it had been powerful and sublime.

It’s definitely the passion of this thing that makes it beautiful, not the things that can be packaged in any porn tape.

~ Blood Music

The hunger hibernates.

Most of the time it’s kept buried deep inside, locked away and unnoticed. The Career takes up a great deal of time, seventy hours some weeks. Social engagements take up another significant slice of processing time. There are only so many things to occupy the mind. Typically, the hunger is so buried under the day-to-day events of life that it goes unnoticed for days. On occasion even longer.

But it’s still there. Lurking. Just under the surface. A shadow under glass. A beast in a fragile cage.

All the sheep’s clothes help mask me. The vanilla friends I adore. The profession I wear like a cloak. The schooling, and hobbies, and shopping, and errands, and oh so long list of dull routines. A cold passionateless ghost gliding along through life. It’s my security blanket. Safety as one among the herd.

One thing is often all it takes to wake the need. A yielding look. The slap of skin on skin. Or leather on skin. The rip of cloth. Or silk. The aroma of unbridled arousal. A moan. Sigh. Whimper. Lifetime TV. The cover of a bodice buster novel. Obvious means of sensuous torment. Other times it can be things so simple they startle me even after a lifetime of Hyde’s rattling cage. A soft laugh. A scent. The whisper of wind across skin. Crimson. Thorns.

And when it’s woken it consumes all. Colors everything in desire. That need to feel stinging flesh. Crimson cheeks. Fistfuls of hair. Barked orders. A wicked glare. Cloth tearing. Supplication offered. The desires come in a flood of heat. Enflaming my very core. Making blood boil and sing. The hunger consumes. No thought escapes its singularity pull. I feel the need in my very core. Wanting to chase. To catch. Hurt. Take. Bones vibrating, blood rushing, heart racing loud. A natural high, a bliss all onto itself. Not just wanting those things but needing them as air. Sating the thirst for while. To have felt those wicked dark desires flowing through me, replacing that life essence with pure deviance. That alone would be enough to subdue the need.

As a sadist though it’s not enough to just torment my prey. I have to deny myself as well. Making those moment last long. Animals seek immediate gratification. Feeds instantly. A man savors his steak. Even though the hunger rages it doesn’t control me. It may beckon me at its whim but I am bigger than it. Ultimately it’s my bitch. I breathe. Take my time. Torment my partner as long as possible. Draw out that desire until I’m so breathless I feel light. Taking every moment of that out on her. Showing her just a hint of that unbridled passion. The hunger kept firmly under tight reigns as I sate myself in her.

Once done the blood cools. Makes music no more. And freed from its cacophony I can appreciate that she’s no different. A dark flawed gem all her own. Her blood music singing faintly in her viens.

~First Spanking

Sometime modern life just sucks.

We’ve been way too busy again. Been apart more than a month. She has a career, I have a career, when she’s free I’m busy and visa versa. Still it beats dying from a broken leg at age thirty.

Finally we have a Saturday that we’re both in town and actually available. She of course has a party to go to later that evening, but I’m not going to get irritated or vindictive, that’s Hyde’s job. We agree to meet for lunch, a little place not far from where I live.

Being the punctual one I get there before her. This will be a constant theme, me arriving to everything before her. Hyde enjoys it, gives him a chance to get into that predatory feeling, like some hunting cat, lying in wait and ready to pounce. He claims a table outside so we can see her coming.

And I spot her and kick myself for not having insisted more frequent meetings. She is damn hot. Perfect body, well into her forties she has curvy in exactly the right places. And she has that air about her, completely comfortable with herself. A busy business woman, an equal to men in almost every sense. She spots me and flashes a blinding smile.

Who cares about the lunch really? Hyde sure as hell doesn’t. Our last couple of emails have revealed that she has never been spanked. To say it was on my mind through the meal would be like saying that Atlanta gets some heat in the summer. Through our conversations about jobs and daily grind, through every bite, through every knowing look, Hyde is thinking about one thing. Stinging palms and cheeks turning a hot cherry red. We walk to my place, Hyde can smell her perfume in gentle breezes. Did I mention that it gets hot in Atlanta?

My place, living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom. Bedroom. We waste no time getting into making out like a couple of teenagers on my bed. And a little more. Bites, nips, teasing. Hand casually exploring. Fingers in hair gently pulling. Tugging her head back, imagining lip and teeth on her throat. Imagining much more. Sadly its still early in the relationship for sex. As the scent of her blinds me with desire I imagine it in vivid detail. Its unbearably hot the two of us wound around each other fully clothed.

Hyde’s had enough. After a long kiss he winds a fist in her hair, gives her a knowing look, then pulls her down across my lap. She act a little surprised, but who’s she fooling? We’ve chatted about this via email at least once. She must know its coming. That or she hasn’t believed me about Hyde yet. Her loss?

And there she is across my lap. Skirt with stockinged legs lying on me. One hand traces her legs, feeling the cool flimsy nylon. The other hand is still in her hair, holding her down as she protests. She doesn’t struggle much. I tell her what I see and feel. The weight on my legs, the look of her legs, how much the skirt had hiked up. My hands touch her legs, exactly as I describe what I see. She can feel where my eyes are through the heat of hungry fingers. They dip under the hem of the skirt and she stiffens. I roll it. Tug it. Expose her. She makes a show of trying to stop me. Protests weakly. But her ass is bared. Again I describe it as the stray hand explores.

The hand comes to a stop. Resting on one check. I can feel the nylon of the hose, and heat from her ass radiating through it. I tell her what comes next. She says nothing. I lift the hand away. I know she can feel the coolness caressing her. I give her a moment to feel it. Then strike. A sharp sound. She makes a grunt. Not very sensuous, but hungry and seductive in its own way. The hand longers a moment, almost long enough to feel the heat. Then its drawn away again. I see her tense, she knows what coming. I strike her again. Hyde is intoxicated. We start slowly. Strike. Pause. Lift. Pause. But in no time the blows are coming faster. In varied places. Cheeks. Thighs. Inner thighs when she forgets to press her legs together. The crack of palm on flesh becomes rhythmic, steady. She’s thrashing. Calling out. Making noises. There are moments when Hyde pauses, lets a hand rest on skin feeling that heat, that glow. And that’s not enough, he’s describing it to her. When Hyde’s thirst is slated he slows again. Enjoying the noises, the heat, the thrashing. Passion, pure passion, a beautiful thing. We desire her. Want her right now.

But she’s crossed a threshold she possibly never thought she would. She’s been spanked by a lover. A first for her. There are more kisses. Murmurs. Promises made. And I escort her to the door. She has a work party and we’re thoroughly modern people. But for a second there Hyde would have given it all up.

~ A Dirty Little Girl

Another one of those too long away meetings. We’d both just been insanely busy, too tied up the day to day of very demanding careers.

When we finally met at her place there was all of the desperate groping and hungry kissing you’d expect from two people that hadn’t seen each other in a long damn time. And lots of sex as well. Over her dining table, on the couch, in her bed. At the end of it all there was one thing that really stood out.

We’d been a little too into our biological needs to get wrapped up in any hot and heavy play. But I did spank her just a little for not making more of an effort to invite me over more frequently (although guilty myself of not pressing her to do so).

And there I was on my back. Spent, glowing, leaning back against the headboard. Enjoying the view of her naked and curled up next to me. When thoughts of slave and servants and victims came rushing to mind. I wanted her again. Not just in a vanilla way though. I wanted something lurid. Something that would make a good executive girl like her blush in shame. Something base.

I grabbed her hair and without asking dragged her face to me. Hissed at her. “Take me in your mouth you nasty little whore.” She flashed me an interesting look. Not exactly hatred. Not exactly loathing. Not exactly desire or hunger. But somehow a combination of all of them. She resisted my hand in her hair. And so I pulled tighter. Hyde had been awoken. She protested only a little and then wrapped her lips around me. I watched her perform, sliding up and down my length her tongue always just hitting that magic spot. And before long I was thrusting up into her. Cruelly. Trying to choke her as she’d slide up and away. I kept my hand in her hair tight guiding her. Fucking her like a cum rag, like I was just using her, jacking off with her face. In time I was ready to cum again. But it was too soon. I wanted something more.

I pulled her mouth off me. Held her so she was hovering just over my cock. Then pulling her back down to graze only the tip. I was dangerously close to exploding on her right there. And had a feeling she’d had liked it. She’d still yet to protest seriously.

“What are you?” I asked.

She blinked and replied, “Jane.”

I shoved her down on me. Thrust my hips up to meet her. Fucked her mouth hard. Really using her now. Just a vessel to slate my lusts in. “No, not who are you. WHAT are you.” I whispered fighting off another climax. Fighting it back made the eventual peak all that much more intense. And the frustration of being so close but quite there intensified my desire to be cruel, taking out on her my frustration of not climaxing like an animal as soon as the feeling came.

I slid her off myself gripping her by the hair. She had a defiant look in her eyes. She wasn’t going to answer.

With both hands I shoved her back down on me. Teeth on skin, fucking whore. I drove into her. Again abusing her for not giving me what I wanted. After a few more moments of this I pulled her back angrily so she could breathe and speak. “What are you?”

“I don’t know, tell me.”

“Lying whore.” I shoved her down again. “You are my cunt. My plaything. A dirty nasty slut hiding in her respectable career. This here is what you are. Nothing but a cunt to fuck. Meat to take pleasure from. My whore. My cunt. You are a fucking cocksucker.”

She had her eyes closed as I called her filthy degrading and debasing names. But still kept working my cock. Even if I’d removed my hands she’d have continued bobbing up and down. It’s what she wanted, escape from the world where she called the shots. Here she was just a wanton creature of desires and sex. And I adored her for it. I yanked her back again letting her breath.

“Say it. What are you?”

She swallowed.

I wrapped my fist in her hair pulling hard. Her eyes pleaded. Was it really so hard to say? Every indication, every movement from her screamed that she wanted to but she resisted.

“Say it.”

“Cocksucker.” She whispered.

Just hearing that word come off her lips excited me. I’d won. Beaten the little princess. Made her pristine little mouth say filthy words. I rewarded her by fucking her again viciously. Then yanked her back off.

“No. Not good enough. I am a cocksucker. Say it.”

She resisted again. Closed her eyes when I twisted a hand in her hair. Then whispered even softer. “I’m a cocksucker.” And softer still, “You bastard.” I didn’t catch the second part because the blood boiling in my veins cried out in a fury that resonated through my cock. I wanted her like I’d never wanted her before.

Given a choice between being proud and being pleasing she’d picked the one that meant the most to her. My ecstasy was only a shadow in that realization.

~ Our Final Tryst

It had been weeks. Combination of both our faults, we each had careers that consumed ghastly amounts of our time. When she was ready and waiting I was at conferences or training. When I was available she was travelling. After several weeks of this our schedules finally collided.

Jane opened the door and had enough time to smile before being shoved backward onto the entry way stairs. Carpeted for our convenience. I couldn’t keep my hands and mouth off her. I wanted her that second. No time to go all the way upstairs. No time for pleasantries or undressing. I wanted her now. This second.

My hands were in her hair pulling her, holding her down. The other on her legs, roaming across her stockings casually. Yes I noticed they were stockings, and wasted no time running one up her thighs to press my palm to her cunt. I could feel heat radiating through the silky little panties she had on. Felt her push back against me. My mouth was on hers, taking kisses from her. Crushing her lips. And then her neck. Nips bites, as I devoured her. In no time I was greedily kissing her sex through her panties. Trying to taste her through them. My hand now wrapped around each thigh pulling her open. Kisses weren’t enough, I was pressing my whole face to her, savoring the noises she was making.

Unable to resist any longer I yanked the panties aside, breathed her in. I savored everything, the glistening lips, her neatly trimmed muff, her fragrances, the heat and moisture as I pressed y face against her, the way she tried to close her legs, her hand in my hair trying to pull me back up, and the taste of her all over as a lapped at her hungrily. I wanted her. Was taking her in a way. And relishing that even though Hyde wanted nothing more than to fuck her right there on the steps I was the one in control. I spent days down there drinking and sucking her. Relishing everything including her body bucking with spasms near the end. Her sighs the sweetest music on earth.

In her after glow I continued lapping her and rubbing all of my face in her. Nipping at her on occasion. She tried to pull me back up to her with my hair. I grabbed her by the throat and told her sternly that I’d be done was I was done. She didn’t like the teeth against her. Pulled hard on my hair warning me not to mark her. I laughed and asked why? Would someone get upset? She was silent a while, a couple of random moans, then answered, yes, she would. I laughed. I’m not the jealous type, if there was someone else that would have been enough for me. And maybe a lurid story or two of their trysts. She never fessed up.

~ The Last Year

A whirlwind. So many changes, upheavals, opportunities, and disasters. 

 Jane has moved on. On one hand its disappointing. On the other so inevitable as to be foolish to be surprised at all.

A year on collarme basking in the glow of knowing there are others out there. Not quite like me, but mirror images that desired a creature like me. And I relishing and amplifying abnormal need. Wanting something more, needing something more, than we're told is acceptable among mundane society. Told actually that our desire is warped, twisted, dangerous.

Jane was one of those, those girls with the repressed desire she'd always wanted to explore but life had happened while never quite tasting that forbidden fruit. I gave her a peak into that world, just enough immersion to titillate.

No regrets here, our time together was delicious. She got her first spanking in life over my knees. Was blindfolded the first time. Called horrible names. Felt fingers wrap around her neck in the midst of enflame passions. Pinned down and taken when lust and desire burned so hot they couldn't be contained. Had clothes ripped from her. And called herself horrible names on request doing so with the knowledge it would escalate passions to blinding levels.

And while she expressed an eagerness to explore more it didn't really fit her lifestyle. And so slowly we drifted apart over the final few months. No regrets, it was an intoxicating first year in Atlanta, one well worth remembering. And with more memories in the making.